the soft tapping 
cracking
of an eggshell on a countertop
brings me to a place that I never thought I would be

sitting in a refrigerator
moved and touched
on a scratchy carpet 
I direct the west to the north and settle on a cushion

the membrane beneath
my porcelain exterior
is open to the world
being prodded at with toothpicks

at a loss for words
I rediscover who I am 
what more I can do
and my thoughts become clogged by the fluorescent lights

I shield my eyes
attempting to speak up
because I am more than my anxiety 
but the bitter feeling is leaking out and leaving me microwaved

it can’t happen now
there are songs to be sang
but I can feel the impending, anxious fever
and my body has been boiled for too long

I am scrambled and feverish
at a loss for words
though I need to communicate that I need help 
or that I need to lock myself in the smallest space available

my world is spinning
shards of shell stuck in my skin
and though the tears on my face threaten “hard-boiled”
a soufflé that is watched will never rise

I don’t like this shade of pink
or the way my yolk has broken
spreading across the tile floor
because I am far more seen than I had expected to be